The Rest Is Silence
by witchchild
Summary: How much can a boy take before he is pushed over the edge? When pushed into battle, what is Harry Potter truly fighting for? Takes place after the final battle with Voldemort.


A/N: This fic was created because I wonder too much. I wonder how much it takes to push a person to the edge, which differs for each person and is a matter of psychology. I wonder what Harry is really fighting for, which will hopefully be further explained by J.K. Rowling, who owns all the characters mentioned or alluded to herein. 

The plot (such as it is) is, I hope, self-explanatory. If not, well, let me know and I'll fix it. My thanks to Mireille, who always reads my fics, despite their dubious quality. Constructive criticism is, as always, greatly appreciated. Thank you to anyone who takes the time to read my humble offerings. That's all.

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The Rest Is Silence

Sometimes he wonders why he is still alive. Those are the bad days, and he claws at the grimy walls, pulling off chunks of crumbling plaster to reveal the splintery wooden beams beneath. He grasps at his own skin, clutches his own hair, trying to find something to hang onto. Sometimes he thinks Voldemort is there, but there is no sound, no touch, so he says nothing, just rocks himself into a semblance of sleep.

He'd laughed, at the end. Like Sirius, finally seeing the last threads gathered into place, the last bodies dropping to the ground. He'd stood there and laughed and laughed and laughed, and Voldemort had laughed with him, in high-pitched, gleeful triumph. He should have died then, with the last of his friends fallen in his protection. He'd thought he _would_ die, his wand lying in splinters at his feet, himself swaying, barely able to stand. He had fought—oh, he had fought—but now he was weary. He had given his strength, his talents, his power to this struggle, and if he had no resources left, he would at least die with dignity.

Still, he had trembled when Voldemort stepped down to face him at last. This was the Dark Lord, after all, and he was only a boy, stripped of all energy and defenses.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort had said, his voice mocking, yet somehow kind. "Harry."

He hadn't replied, hadn't been able to, crushed as he was by the layers of exhaustion and shock. He'd just stood there and listened, throat too dry for him to laugh again, or scream, or cry, or anything to drown out the Dark Lord's words.

"You've broken your toys, Harry," Voldemort had continued, gesturing at the corpses that were scattered around the room. The Dark Lord had smiled, reaching down to pluck someone's head off the floor, a girl's jaw gaping open as Voldemort dangled it carelessly by its long strands of bushy brown hair. "You won't get any new ones, if you can't fix them, Harry." The head, screaming soundlessly as it flew through the air to hit his chest with a dull thud, and fall, unheeded, at his feet. "Well, Potter? Fix her! Or can't you?"

Her eyes had peered up at him, sightless. He hadn't looked, had continued staring stoically at the wall before him, not even flinching when cold fingers gripped his chin and jerked his head up. He had stared blankly into red, slit-pupilled eyes, eyes that narrowed thoughtfully at his lack of response. 

"Do you want to die, boy?"

Silence, but for the nervous shuffle of the Death Eaters, unable to keep still in the face of their Lord's power. 

"Come now, Harry, tell me what you want. I will grant you anything you desire, if you but speak your wish."

He had not replied, and eventually the fingers had left off stroking his cheek, and the Dark Lord had begun circling him. 

"Do you want _me_ to die?"

He had almost spoken, then. _Yes!_ his mind screamed at him, _Yes, die!_ But he hadn't been able to get the word out, and it fell into the bottom of his stomach and grew and grew and grew, rotten and perfect. He'd swallowed slightly, clearing his throat, and remained silent. A hundred corpses had waited on his word, and he'd wondered, briefly, what exactly it was that they had fought for. The silence had drawn out, as though begging him to speak, and Voldemort had frowned, then.

"Tell me, boy. Say the word, and I will." The cold fingers had pressed a wand into his hand, and he'd recognized it by feel before it, too, fell to the ground. He'd clutched at empty air for a moment before letting it go, banishing his best friend's wide grin and flame-red hair from his mind. _Dignity,_ he'd thought, and beneath that, _please, let me join them soon._

The wand had crunched beneath Voldemort's shoe, creating a pleasant tear in the silence, into which Voldemort had spoken. "What's the matter, Harry?" The words dripping into his ear, sweetly condescending. "Don't you care anymore?" And once more the laugh, high-pitched and cruel, only this time it goes on, echoing ceaselessly off the high stone walls, until he clutches his hair, tears at his skin, anything to make it stop.

On the worst days, all he can hear is that laughter, that laughter and those words, echoing, echoing.

"Don't you care anymore?" Voldemort had asked.

But the truth was, he didn't.


End file.
